Flatline
by palomino333
Summary: "It's not that I didn't know, Jim. It's that I wanted to think I'd talked him down from it. Of course, I hadn't. That's how our arguments went, anyway." Spock's sacrifice has saved the Enterprise, and now McCoy must deal with the after-effects of a fractured bond. During and post Wrath of Khan. Slash
1. Chapter 1

This fic picks up directly after McCoy visits Kirk for his birthday. While it's not made clear whether Spock knew of the _fal-tor-pan_ , it is established in _III_ that Sarek did. Despite their feud, I think that Sarek would have imparted this knowledge to Spock at some point, as he is protective of him. The lullaby McCoy sings is something I left up to interpretation, as I try not to add song lyrics into my fanfics. His singing is a reference to the fact that DeForest Kelley began his life in show business as a singer.

I hope this does not come off as me bashing Saavik. I very much like her, actually. I just interpret her relationship with Spock as platonic. (clears throat) Plus, I think she and Xon make a cute couple, though he is only found in non-canon works.

* * *

An arm shifted against Spock's side, and he stirred, blinking blearily.

His apartment was quiet, albeit not very inhabited, his time more spent upon the _Enterprise_. Earth, in many ways, was still quite alien to him. While not an oddity in Starfleet, he found the culture of humanity too jarring, and indeed, in his past, worthy of ridicule (and he still did, somewhat, now). After all, he did have an alien with him in his bed.

"Oh, sorry," McCoy murmured drowsily, feeling him moving against him, "Didn't mean to wake you. We've got a few hours left, if you want to go back to sleep."

Spock threaded his fingers through McCoy's hair, and placed his mouth near his mate's ear. "What is bothering you?"

"It shouldn't be difficult to figure out," he replied, his tone breathy from having Spock so close to him.

"The admiral," Spock commented.

"What the hell was Jim thinking," McCoy muttered, "He's a baby compared to me."

"That is reaching, Len," Spock corrected.

"Figure of speech," McCoy grumbled.

"Nevertheless, it does bother him, although it is unavoidable."

McCoy shrugged. "There's nothing really wrong with old age. It just is. We just don't like to look forward to it."

"That was contradictory," Spock pointed out.

McCoy groaned, and was silent for a moment before continuing. "At the risk of being corrected once more, I'd like to make a point."

"I am merely offering a counter to your argument," Spock replied helpfully. McCoy half-heartedly swiped at the air, being too tired to connect his arm with a body part. The Vulcan caught it and placed a kiss to the back of it before allowing McCoy to drop it.

Coyly, the doctor tugged the sheet more tightly about his naked body, swaddling himself further from Spock. With an amused grunt, Spock sat up, and tugged his mate's lithe form into his lap. There was something sensual about being separated from his naked body by only thin fabric. McCoy, sensing his arousal, lowered his head to kiss along Spock's collar bone. Spock held the bundle close, his grip tightening once at a memory, buried by years of time.

There was Kirk, much-aged, his hair prematurely gray, calling Spock a traitor after the competency hearing. While their rapidly-aging conditions from the away mission on Gamma Hydra IV had been temporary, they had still revealed more about themselves than they had desired. In Kirk's case, it was his fear of helplessness, brought about by age. McCoy had a suspicion about that, especially after Anton Karidian's tour of _Macbeth_ had brought him to Planet Q, and back into Kirk's life.

Spock's hand tightened on his shoulder, and McCoy sighed, leaning his head against his shoulder. "I know." And the point didn't have to be made. What was it for Spock, he wondered from time to time, to know that he would outlive them?

Spock's answer came in the form of a slight tug on the bond, which caused McCoy to glance up. Warm brown eyes stared into his. Clichés about the end of time drifted away, as he stared into the younger man's eyes. Of course, either of them could be lost tomorrow, given how out of balance the universe was, but that was always a factor. Spock's logic considering that factor occasionally slipped. As such, he utterly adored his mate for his devotion to preserving life, though it was tempered with his frustration over how it led him to indulge in his emotions too often. And occasionally, Spock wondered, how did it not kill this human, to be as driven by them as he was? Then again, McCoy had a similar thought process about him, considering his adherence to logic. They were not diametrically opposed, as they had once thought themselves to be, but their dissimilarities were easy to see. It was easy for outsiders, for example, to think that there was nothing between them but bad blood.

Spock slowly leaned back against the pillow. He needed to stop that train of thought. There were cases of lovers who had shared a mind far too much, conjoining each other. It seemed the longer the life he had with Leonard, the more difficult that line was becoming to walk. The idea of the two of them, hopelessly combined, was the stuff of nightmares. McCoy stroked along his hairline. "Shhh…" Spock swallowed, and Leonard realized that he was baring his fear of the opposite occurring, that his desire to keep him would lead to a dark distortion of mind, if not of body. Spock wanted to let him go, rather than forcing his consciousness to remain, when it was his time. Though it was easier to say than to do, given his attachment. His mate was taken aback by this gift, but utterly grateful for it.

McCoy sat up, the sheet sliding down to his hips. He crawled on top of Spock, who sat up slightly. Spock ran his fingers down McCoy's sides, causing his mate to groan, and arch slightly in pleasure. It was partly out of affection, but also out of covetousness. He had felt McCoy's possessiveness of him, upon noticing his protégé Saavik's glances at him. Tracing his thumbs inward, he ran them over the grayed hairs on McCoy's chest, and sunk them into the skin. He had aged, as Spock himself had, but his husband's desire for him had not waned. Rather, the fire continued to burn for him, more fiercely than he would ever mention in polite company, with his gaze occasionally drifting to the doctor on the bridge, or within sickbay. Saavik was, admittedly, quite lovely, but he did not share with her the raw years he had with the doctor. They had had their quarrels, some rather harsh, yes. But there had also been discoveries and ecstasies. While there had been volatility, there had also been peace. Saavik was similar to Zarabeth in that regard. A good friend to have, but a stranger to him. For all that he had felt lonely, he was now joined inexorably with his doctor through their shared history.

McCoy smirked, sensing his thoughts. "Cut the bullshit, Spock. You just want me to warm your bed."

"I see no problem with this," he replied.

McCoy snorted. "There's one: you steal the covers."

"I am accustomed to a warmer climate. It is logical," he replied, though his husband noted, with a touch of humor, his slight hesitation, as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

McCoy's hand, calloused from years of work, bearing scars and scrapes from missions, and the skin cracked from the use of chemicals, lowered toward Spock's cheek. Extending his fingers, he threaded them through Spock's hair, and combed it. Spock closed his eyes and let out a relaxed breath. He leaned forward, and kissed his forehead, his lips lingering upon it. He kissed Spock's lips, and felt Spock's hand on his back, drawing him gently into his mouth. Breaking off the kiss, Leonard asked, "You all right, love?"

"Yes," he replied, "We are currently Earth-bound. There is little need for concern." It was a gentle brush, and Leonard realized that he needed to back off a step. Occasionally, McCoy made the mistake of underestimating Spock's resilience, and there was also a shade of fear from his previous failed marriage due to neglect. Spock, however, called to his attention whenever he was beginning to hover.

McCoy, however, shrugged it off. "Depends upon what you mean by 'little need.' You tend to stretch the meaning, as well." There were subtle instances of this, with Spock standing slightly before him, when interacting with unknown individuals. On other occasions, with a hand possessively wrapped about his waist, notably after an encounter with the Romulans, or when he had overheard the critical words of other Vulcans.

The Romulan commander detected something, all those years ago, during her mind meld with Spock. He'd hidden McCoy from her, but she could tell his emotions had been diverted. With a knowing smile, she told him that she would keep his secret. Silence had fallen between Spock and McCoy for the remainder of that day, mostly due to Spock having to speak with Jim about their undercover mission. That following night, however, lowering his head before McCoy, he entreated, "Forgive me."

And McCoy, for all the anger he felt against him, for the deception, and putting him through this, merely replied, "You're home, Spock." He extended two fingers toward him, and Spock, in silence, touched his own fingers to them. Nothing more needed to be said on the matter.

"Perhaps," he admitted, "However, exploration tends to pose the higher amount of hazards."

McCoy shrugged as he lay up against him. "Especially considering all these pesky kids running around the ship." Spock raised an eyebrow, and McCoy felt his amusement flickering over to him. He groaned in annoyance. "Well, I guess they're all right. They haven't broken anything yet."

McCoy didn't want children of his own again, despite how he adored Joanna, and her own child. Spock hadn't given much of a mind to them, either, as they each had their work. Still, he could not help but feel a tenderness when he watched McCoy rock his infant grandson to sleep, singing softly to him. Noticing the Vulcan in the nursery's doorway, McCoy had explained, after tucking the young one into his crib, that it had been a lullaby he used to sing to Joanna, when he was able to see her. He'd sung for Spock on a few occasions before, when they were alone, and when his husband asked, being embarrassed by the sound of his own voice. Spock moved forward from the doorway, and felt, as he did so, as if another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. McCoy sheepishly looked in the crib, where the infant slept, and Spock asked, "Will you to teach it to me, sometime?"

McCoy shrugged. "It's just a nursery rhyme. Not very intellectually stimulating."

Spock gave him the barest hint of a smile. "That is immaterial. It means something to you. I would also like to hear you sing again."

McCoy smiled up at him. "Sorry it won't be an opera."

"It does not matter," Spock replied, gesturing to catch McCoy's attention. His grandson had slipped out from under his blanket and was going to get cold. Reaching in, Leonard carefully tugged it back onto him. "Rather," he continued, "I desire to see you, as you are, when you do."

McCoy grinned, and Spock could see a blush dusting his cheeks as he shook his head. Remarkable, his husband was. He'd been shamelessly stark naked with Spock, and in all manner of compromising positions, over the years, but when it came to singing, he was utterly abashed. "You could've just said you liked it." He rolled his eyes. "Vulcans. They always have to overly complicate things." Spock didn't trust himself with touching a human baby, but he was content to hear him again as he sang.

In their own way, they were leaving behind a legacy, but Spock wished to strive further, in his lifetime. His mate had that passion reflected in him, though in a manner toward the field of medicine itself, in helping others to live well. Despite the complaints that he had about space, McCoy's own drive made him return to the stars. And then, the moment would change, perhaps it was a touch of the hand, a lean on an arm, or a word passed, and the conversation would shift. Star charts and medical data would drift aside, and a house, one inherited by McCoy, would be thought of, if only for a moment. They would return there, together.

McCoy stroked along his captain's jaw and kissed him. Spock protectively placed an arm about him and relaxed as the doctor caressed him with his hands and his lips. For a moment, he considered the benefits of working himself into the ground, if it meant that his mate would pamper him. At McCoy's annoyed grunt, Spock gave a slight smile, indicating that it was a joke. "Spoiled hobgoblin," McCoy muttered with a shake of the head before tugging him back in for another kiss.

XXXXXX

If Spock could give Khan one thing, it was his persistence. Even when the former dictator had lost, he would still rather attempt to go out in a bang, quite literally, in fact. David was too focused upon his screen to stop him and alert the others on the bridge.

He strode briskly down the corridor. There was no time to think, now. Too many lives would be lost, if he hesitated. Goodbyes would have to wait. Jim had the bridge. Scott was likely facing more losses, and a complete breakdown of his life's work. Uhura's ear was likely threatening to bleed from the interference caused by the opposing ship's destruction. Sulu was handling the _Enterprise_ carefully, trying to minimize whatever damage was incoming. Chekov was fighting back against his tormentor, on the phaser torpedoes.

Leonard…He would be there. Spock already began building his mental wall, encasing himself further inside with each step he took. His mate wouldn't know his intentions and could only sense him within the ship. He didn't dare reach out to him now, masking himself with his concentration upon the situation. For all that McCoy knew, he was focused upon Khan, himself, which wasn't far off from the truth.

The service way lit his face a bright red. He knew this ship well and considered it home for several years. It was not his ship, now. It was Kirk's, and he would do what he could to save it. Engineering was in chaos, with several crew members hurrying about. The bond tightened, with McCoy's stress spilling into it. Spock glanced about for a moment, and his vision locked onto him. There he was, attending to a fallen engineer. Spock decided that he had to be quick, if he wanted to slip by, as the doctor was quite close to the radiation chamber.

McCoy's white coat whipped as he sped over to him. Stopping before him, his one hand tight about a pillar, and the other still clutching a hypo, he growled, "Are you out of your Vulcan mind?! No human can tolerate the radiation that's in there!"

Spock elected to throw his own words back at him. "As you are so fond of observing, doctor, I am not human." He felt a sense of anger course through him. McCoy felt it, as well, and defiantly held his ground. Despite their deaths hanging over them, Leonard wouldn't let him go. The fool hadn't learned a thing from the Guardian of Forever, and he was about to get everyone killed.

McCoy's grip on his shoulder was firm. "You're not going in there!" The doctor had to feel his anger at him, but still he remained defiant. He wasn't going to allow Spock to pass, despite how he very well knew that the Vulcan could pick him up or shove him out of the way. But then the tactic wouldn't work, as McCoy would be ready for it, and would side step it. Spock thought on his feet, and turned to look at Scott, as if he was bowing to his mate's argument. McCoy's relief, as well as his concern for the engineer, was the signal Spock needed. He abhorred the idea of abusing his mate, especially after shoving McCoy against a cave wall in a primal rage all those years ago on Sarpeidon. But this was not harm, rather it was a method of coaxing. And that was what caught McCoy off guard.

The doctor struggled in his grip to stay awake, and Spock soothed him to rest. It was a reverse of a signature move employed by the doctor, in disabling assailants, or, at times, wayward patients. Spock gently lowered McCoy to the floor. His mate looked utterly beautiful, and he wished to hold him for longer. They'd had their time to do so, with shore leaves and nights off duty. It had been a good marriage. He grabbed Scott's gloves. Little time was to be wasted now. He knew Kirk would understand and give him his proper burial. Sarek wouldn't have his body. He had made his choice, and his father could disapprove of him to his grave. Their feud would not be completed, and Sarek would not receive closure. Much like a scorned child, he took satisfaction in his small victory over his father.

But turning back to glance at Leonard, he knew he couldn't do it. There wasn't enough time to break the bond, and it would damage his concentration, which now was needed. McCoy would survive for maybe a couple of months after his death, but then the strain of the broken bond would be too much. He didn't wish to deny Leonard the rest of his life. And with that sentiment came more doubts, his decision, once one he was resolute in holding, twisting itself out of his hands. Ultimately, he found that, despite it all, he was afraid. Spock did not desire to back down and did not consider that an option. He would let down too many people who depended on him that way. Yet, cessation of existence towered above him. He would not have cared, had he not found company here. Had his mother not sat with him, his head in her chest after he'd been bullied again, had he not played chess with Kirk, had Saavik not taken him as her mentor, and had McCoy not refused to leave him on Makus III, it would not have mattered. The living clung too tightly to each other, it seemed.

"Remember."

Leonard would be safe. Once Spock's katra was carried to Mount Seleya, the doctor would be free of their bond to live a full life in peace. Spock didn't dare think of a possible secondary option and give himself false hope. Sarek had told him, when the lights of the lamps had been turned down, of an ancient and obscure practice, the _fal-tor-pan_. But it could not possibly work here. His body would be far too damaged by radiation for that to occur. And yet, he was tempted by the prospect of being able to spend his life with his husband again. Really, his human side had to fight with him now? It didn't matter, he would die too, locked in an embrace with the half of him that was Vulcan. Tugging on the gloves, he stood on the rotating platform attached to the door. Further reflection was not necessary. It was time to work.

McCoy gasped, his hands scrabbling along the floor as he sat up. Spock, where was he? Swinging around, his eyes widened at the sight of Spock inside that room. His stomach dropped, and his first instinct was to dart in there after him, grab him by one of his pointed ears, and drag him out.

But it was too late for that, now. He little cared for what it would do to his own body, but opening the door, now that Spock was working on the core, would kill Scotty and other engineers by exposing them to deadly levels of radiation. He couldn't do it, although the temptation was high. Had it been his life, he would have thrown it away, willingly, for him. He thought was going to be sick as Spock stuck his head right into the smoke of released radiation. He beat furiously upon the glass, screaming at Spock to get out. It was out of frustration more than much else, as well as a release of pain. He could feel it, through their link, as the antimatter radiation slowly cooked his husband alive. McCoy begged and pleaded through his thoughts for Spock to stop and leave it alone. It was as useless as it was to bang on the thick glass, however, as engrossed Spock was in his task, his mental calculations forming a second wall between them. It was one of Spock's endearing traits, his engrossed curiosity. He could feel tears trailing down his cheeks but had no mind to wipe them off. He just couldn't tear his vision away from the harrowing scene.

Spock collapsed against the glass wall. It was finished, at last, his mental wall falling. McCoy, however, caught himself, as he couldn't hit Spock with a barrage of anger. It would be kicking him while he was down. He wasn't cruel. Rather, he held out his arms to Spock's consciousness, deeply wounded as it was. Spock fell into him, and McCoy caught him. Channeling his energy into something constructive, however small, he sent a message to Jim to come down immediately.

Spock was whispering to Kirk through the glass wall, but mentally, McCoy could hear him on a different plane.

"T'hy'la." The greeting sent a shudder down his spine, the voice so weak from their connection fading.

McCoy stood utterly still, in the silence of that room. Kirk, Scotty, and the others were, for all intents and purposes, not there, in their private discussion. "Love," he replied, his own mental voice weakening, in the effect of a reverse ripple. Caught off guard by how weak it sounded, he tried again, "All right, you win."

A soft chuckle answered him, and McCoy physically raised a hand to wipe at his eyes. It was a rich sound, one that he so seldom genuinely heard, rather than the tortured version the Platonians had extracted from him. It was a private sound between them, though one more associated with contentment than pleasure. While there was certainly a sense of excitement in catching the Vulcan in his bed, the doctor had found there was something else that was greater in simply being able to live his life with this man. That laugh nearly made him fall to his knees.

It was that anguish that prompted Spock to whisper gravely, "I am sorry, Ashayam."

"No!" He cried out, his hand twisting at his side, "I can fix you! Just—just let me think, damn it!"

"Leonard," Spock's voice was firm, and McCoy's hand released.

He didn't care that his days were numbered now, because of the broken meld. He hadn't been expecting to live past the next few minutes. He wanted to fight once more with Spock, and he knew that his husband could feel his rage, but he kept it contained. He didn't want to poison their last moments together. He'd thought he'd never get another chance when the Vians had taken him away to torture him. Now he realized how much of a mirror that was.

He could feel Spock's presence gently drifting over him in an intimate caress. Gooseflesh rose on him. He wanted to seize that touch, and perhaps it would keep him there. Medically, however, it was impossible, and he felt embarrassed for his mind's throwing years of study out the window. McCoy felt a sensation akin to Spock running the pad of his thumb over his lips. It was reminiscent of the sensation that preceded their first kiss. McCoy bit back a cry. "I love you."

And Spock seized him then, grasping onto him as a man overboard clutched a lifeline. McCoy welcomed his dying presence, perfectly willing to allow Spock to drown in him, if only to keep him near. He decided that he had lost his mind, at that point, but didn't much care. "I will be with you," Spock whispered, "You will not walk alone." It was a nice sentiment, a good sendoff. Something to give a smile to before McCoy laid on a knife. "Please," Spock entreated, catching him off guard with his utterly startled reaction, "listen to me."

The importance of it, however, became slack as their bond's last strands broke. Spock realized the futility of a full explanation. There was simply not enough energy for too large a task, and the instructions he'd left buried within McCoy's mind had to be enough. Frustrated as he was by it, similarly to a pianist with a broken wrist, or a toolmaker without a stone, Spock found he could not alter the situation this time. And he found kinship with Kirk, in realizing how utterly powerless he felt. It wasn't about him, now. But perhaps a bookend, to the doctor's near loss on Minara II, and the barest hint of a clue, one that ran the risk of misinterpretation, or misguidance, would help. He'd take it. "Come find me."

"Darling…" Kirk collapsed at the side of the glass wall dividing him from his friend's corpse. McCoy took a heavy breath. "Wait for me."


	2. Chapter 2

Several plot elements from _Crisis on Centaurus_ by Brad Ferguson are included in this chapter: McCoy's sister Donna, Kirk meeting McCoy due to a severe knee injury, Spock meeting Joanna, McCoy's second home on Centaurus (and its being destroyed), Kirk's cabin on Centaurus, and Kirk offering for Spock to take a vacation to his cabin with him.

McCoy's suffering from the broken mental bond with Spock, as well as what would have been cardiac arrest, had it not been for carrying his _katra_ , is headcanon based on fanon that a broken meld can be fatal to the surviving mate. The sequence of McCoy enduring pain was written while I listened to "Dance With the Night Wind" from the _Silent Hill 3_ soundtrack.

* * *

The relief given by Spock's sacrifice was so fleeting. Once the day shift had stumbled off to their quarters, a mournful silence fell over the ship.

Kirk stared down at the glass of bourbon McCoy had poured for him, the bottle being in the doctor's personal store. They were alive, they should be happy for that. They had been, for a moment, upon seeing the glint in space after Spock's coffin had been sent off. But there was no happiness tonight. Not just him, but the charges under him, had fallen.

McCoy looked like hell. His eyes were puffy and red, his hair slightly unkempt. He was slightly slouched and appeared older than he was. They all had. After reality had set in, they grieved in private, or with a close friend. He hadn't indicated that he'd wanted company, and Kirk had allowed him his time alone. After speaking with David, however, he had pinged to check in on his friend, which ended with him inviting McCoy to sit with him. The doctor had brought the alcohol, which he had already smelled like upon entering the room.

Conversation between them was sparse, their regret speaking for them. "Likely, we won't be returning to Earth for about a month, now," Kirk commented.

McCoy nodded, having said the less of the two of them. His continually faraway gaze was eerie. Something about him looked damaged, in a way, and Kirk's heart sank. He lowered his head to look at his hand. "I've already compiled the death certificates. Once we get in range, they can be sent off."

"Thank you," Kirk replied, not wanting to breach a personal subject for McCoy. He would, once close enough, contact Sarek and Amanda about their son's death. He couldn't push him on it. However, he would not be alone in it, as Kirk would have to send the message, as well.

McCoy didn't say a word about Spock, the lack of his presence being felt. "Don't blame yourself, Bones," Kirk comforted.

His empty eyes slowly raised to meet his. He took a heavy breath. "I…" He broke off, and looked away, his eyes shutting. He let go of the glass and rubbed at his eyes. "I can't help it. I should've known that he'd lie to me. Why did I listen to him?"

Kirk moved to rise, and McCoy stopped him, hissing, "Don't." Dropping his hand, McCoy muttered, "I can't explain it to you fully, but Spock," he brought his arms about himself, "He built a wall. I couldn't read his intentions. He taught me how to do it, but I'm not as good at it. I couldn't even sense it, but that's the point of it."

"Then don't blame yourself, you didn't know," Kirk argued.

McCoy kneaded the fabric of his uniform. "It's not that I didn't know, Jim. It's that I wanted to think I'd talked him down from it. Of course, I hadn't. That's how our arguments went, anyway." He reached out, and pushed his drink away from himself, the liquid sloshing.

It was a nail being placed in a coffin. McCoy didn't dare speak further, as he knew, that had Spock not died, neither of them would be sitting there.

Kirk, however, reached out to him. "I shouldn't have left Khan on that planet."

"You made a humane decision based upon the knowledge at hand," McCoy replied, though his words sounded mechanical, "You didn't know what would happen to that planet."

"I could have very well had him placed in a penal colony, and that would have been the end of it." Kirk shook his head at his own foolish pride, and similarly pushed his glass aside. McCoy didn't contradict him this time, and he found his silence to be crushing. When he glanced at his CMO, however, the latter looked away, not wishing to incriminate him.

Rather, he opted to exit the unpleasant conversation by rising. "I'll at least make myself useful, and help you clean up," McCoy offered, "Gives me something to do, anyway, other than sleep."

His tone was neutral, though not flippant. Kirk had a suspicion that his friend, similarly to himself and the others, was having trouble fully acknowledging what had come to pass on this black day. Deciding to keep the delicate balance, Kirk replied, "Sure, I can use another pair of hands."

Glasses clinked as they were put away. The empty bottle rolled on its side, and slipped off, prompting Kirk to catch it. He would normally have joked about his reflexes but allowed that joke to die before it left his lips. The doctor had been scrubbing off the table when he let out a gasp, the towel falling from his grip. He braced himself upon his elbows on the table's surface. Putting his head in his hands, he rubbed at the sides of his head. Kirk went over to him in concern. McCoy took a breath to re-center himself and stood. "Bones, does your family know?" Kirk asked quietly, grasping his arm.

McCoy lowered his hands. "On my side, Joanna and Donna. On his, Sarek and Amanda."

Kirk's hand tightened on his arm. "I'll—" he broke off, realizing that he would have choked off his words, had he continued. Swallowing, Kirk tried again. "I'll find a way to fix it.

"I'm not broken, Jim," he replied quietly, "Our link's doing what it's supposed to."

Seizing him by the shoulders, Kirk shook him. "So that's it, then?! You'll just lay down and die? Just what the hell happened to you?"

McCoy gritted his teeth, and shoved Kirk off him. The two men stood in silence, catching their breath. Kirk lowered his eyes, and turned his head away, his forefinger and thumb wiping at them. He made no sound, but McCoy could tell from the slight jerk his shoulders gave that he was stifling a sob. Glancing away from him, McCoy noticed the reading glasses he had given Kirk, which were propped up on the nightstand. For a moment, he felt annoyance at seeing that the lenses were broken, but he let it go.

Kirk lowered his hand, and, gathering himself, turned back to look at him. His eyes still glistened, and for once he seemed lost for words. "I'm so sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," McCoy reassured.

"My ship, my problem," he replied, his voice taking on a defensive note. McCoy stood defiantly before him on that point, tension crackling as neither man wished to back down. Kirk realized the utter disdain he felt against his friend for reassuring him at all. Did he think he could just heal everyone's problems by throwing a band-aid or some advice on it? He was a fool. Then again, they all were. But there were some places McCoy couldn't tread, and the same went for Kirk. Walls, forged by time and their differing fields had risen between them, without them noticing.

Kirk attempted break them down. "How long do we have?"

McCoy folded his arms. "Give or take a couple of months. This circumstance is rare, so I can't give an accurate amount."

"How will it happen?"

"Thankfully, it won't be anything grotesque. My body will begin to shut down, since my brain is turning itself off. Likely, it'll be cardiac arrest that will end me." Kirk gave away too much in his expressions, but then again, this was on a personal level, and McCoy knew him too well. "Only thing I'm worried about are false starts," McCoy commented quietly.

It was too much. Kirk's arms were about him, holding him tightly. Burying his head in McCoy's shoulder, he choked, "Oh, Bones, no…" McCoy felt Kirk's tears seeping into his uniform as he wept, clutching at him. McCoy's embarrassment at himself for being viewed as an invalid was combined with his care for his friend. He didn't want Kirk to be like this, especially over him.

He brought his hands up to Kirk's uniform and pushed on him. "Jim." Kirk slowly backed up, self-consciously wiping his face on his sleeve. "I'm still here."

Kirk grabbed a hold of himself. Spock would have thought it incorrect for him to be upset. Likely, he was making McCoy feel uncomfortable with his behavior, and he had enough to deal with already. Everyone did, now. But he didn't have to do it alone. "Will you stay here tonight?"

McCoy glanced over at the bed. "It only fits one."

Kirk shook his head. "I'll sleep in the chair." He self-consciously placed his hands on his hips. "Call me superstitious, I guess."

"You need to sleep. That can't be comfortable."

Kirk gave him a sad smile. "I don't think either of us will."

"Fine. Only I get the chair." Kirk opened his mouth, but McCoy cut him off by holding up his finger. "My choice, or I don't stay."

The captain shrugged. "Suit yourself, then. Blanket's in the storage cabinet."

There wasn't much to speak of, and there was little point in trying, the air solemn as it was. McCoy retreated to his quarters to switch his clothing before returning. Kirk wrote out a quick log of the day, mainly to get it out of his system, before putting it away. He didn't wish to think on the letters to family, and recordings of service. It had become easier to be detached from it, but now he stood upon a pile of dead young people, and his close friend. McCoy, Kirk's blanket in hand, made it over to the chair before stopping against it, catching himself on its arm. Kirk raised his head from his desk, and McCoy waved a hand at him. "Clumsy," he muttered. Twisting about, he climbed into the chair, and curled underneath the blanket. He gazed over at Kirk as his friend lowered himself onto his bed. "And Jim?"

Kirk glanced up at him. "Yeah?"

"Thanks." Kirk gave him an understanding nod. McCoy raised his hand to his face and lowered his head into it. Climbing into bed, Kirk quietly commanded for lights out. Still, the doctor's head remained buried, and he didn't question him as to why. Turning to stare up at the ceiling, he put his arms behind his head. He took a breath, and mentally prepared himself for a long night.

Swimming through the darkness, he saw several images. He saw his ship, falling apart. He saw Khan, bloodied and filled with loss, reaching out to him from where he lay, mangled, beneath falling wires and metal. He saw Scotty's nephew, dying in sickbay. Spock placed his hand to the glass, one last time, as a salute, a goodbye.

He opened his eyes. Was it all a nightmare? Perhaps Spock was still alive, and he could call him…But a cold reality slowly dawned upon him. No, he could not. Kirk propped himself up on an elbow and glanced over at the chronometer. He figured he must have dozed off. Something was creaking, and soft, pained-sounding grunts and groans were heard. Kirk's eyes widened as he realized that it was McCoy's voice. Sliding out of bed, he commanded, "Computer, lights, dim!" He threw the covers from him, his eyes widening at the sight before him.

McCoy had twisted slightly upon the chair, his one hand tight upon the arm rest to the point where his knuckles were white. His legs were still curled tightly into himself, while his other hand clutched at his chest. His breaths were short, as if he was having trouble breathing. The blanket that had been on his lap was on the floor.

Kirk's heart hammered in his ears as he darted over to him. Seizing him by his clothing, he shook him. "Bones, wake up!"

McCoy's eyes shot open. He tugged himself backward but stopped upon registering who was holding onto him. "Jim?" He glanced about, unsure of his surroundings until realization dawned on him.

Kirk let out a sigh of relief as McCoy contorted himself out of his position. Straightening up, and running a hand through his own unkempt hair, Kirk asked drowsily, "What was that?"

McCoy's eyes narrowed in thought. "It's an imprint. Spock told me about this. My mind is simulating what he went through when he…" His voice trailed off, and Kirk's hand fell from his hair.

"How badly is it hurting you?" Kirk asked in concern.

"Like hell," he muttered with a grimace.

"Anything you need me to get for you?"

McCoy shook his head. "It's just a simulation. It'll go away with time." He winced, and lurched. "Jesus!"

"Sitting in that chair probably isn't making it any better," Kirk observed, "You should probably lay down."

"Jim, no," he protested.

Kirk smiled at him and picked up the blanket. "We're partway through the night, anyway. Just don't get any ideas. It's still my ship. Besides, I've nodded off at my desk before, so it's nothing really new." McCoy winced, but gave him a knowing smirk. He'd caught the captain doing that before, during the five-year mission, and had thrown a blanket over his shoulders. When the doctor still didn't move, Kirk added, "Don't forget, you still have the medical staff to teach. They're going to need you more than ever, now."

McCoy slowly nodded, and rose, his bodily motion tilting sideways due to a lack of sleep hindering his coordination. Kirk grasped his wrist to steady him. Meeting the edge of the bed, McCoy gratefully tumbled onto it. He sprawled sideways, his head missing the pillow. Grumbling, he tugged it under his head. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, his skin burning, and his eyes tearing from the pain. Feeling Kirk's eyes on him still, he glanced over at him. "What?" He mumbled.

Seeking to take McCoy's mind off his pain, Kirk placed a hand on his own knee. "Remember how we met?"

McCoy propped himself on his elbow. "What, your knee bothering you again? Hang on a sec," he crawled to the edge of the bed, his words beginning to slur from his tiredness, "Let me get my medkit…"

"No," Kirk replied firmly, and McCoy turned to look at him, "it's not. It's thanks to you that I can even walk at all."

The doctor lowered his head back to the pillow with a dazed expression. "Don't get all sentimental on me. I'd have done it for any patient. You were just crazy enough to take me up on the treatment."

Kirk smiled. "When I was well enough to walk again, we went to Centaurus. Long ship ride."

McCoy's one arm lazily flailed against the pillow. "I remember. We talked about women over cards." Understanding flickered through his vision. "Carol was one of yours."

Kirk nodded. "I miss Centaurus. My cabin's still there, you know. You can come with me, if you want."

McCoy's gaze became faraway, his own property, which he had owned as a second home to be close to Joanna, having been destroyed during a terrorist incident. He and Kirk had been so worried, that day, about whether his daughter was all right. And thankfully, he'd been able to hold her in his arms. Spock had been the one to discover her first on that terrible day, fittingly. His vision became hazy as he recalled how on a later date, he'd properly introduced Spock to Joanna as her new stepfather to be during a later shore leave on Centaurus.

Kirk's face fell, and he realized that his attempt to comfort McCoy had backfired. Spock had left his fingerprints upon both their memories. McCoy shut his eyes, releasing the tears that had been building in them. Looking down, he asked, "You ever get to take Spock on vacation, there?" They both knew that the answer was no. After the five-year mission, the _Enterprise_ began to take on more profile assignments, and Kirk eventually ascended to admiral. Coupled with the fact that Spock became captain himself, it simply fell between the cracks. Kirk realized the futility of his efforts, as he had brought the conversation full circle, back to their loss. He'd lost a best friend. McCoy had lost a husband. The doctor shrugged. "Jim, it's okay. Life gets in the way."

"It feels like an excuse, though," Kirk commented.

"Promises, promises. Look, if we had the infinite time and resources that some races in this universe boast, it would be different. But now, we do what we can with what we are given. And hell, we're still better off than our ancestors were."

Kirk reached out, and grasped McCoy's other hand, which was outstretched on the sheet. It trembled slightly in his grasp. He ran his fingers over McCoy's, coaxing them to settle. McCoy's breathing staggered once more, only to relax in the next breath as he drifted back off to sleep.

Kirk slowly let go of his hand and sat back upon the chair. He felt protective of his friend and didn't want to let him out of his sight. But he couldn't possibly force that upon him, or for that matter, any of his crew, for as tightly as he clutched them to himself now.

McCoy's condition was a piece that just didn't fit. Spock wouldn't have desired to place him in such pain, let alone kill him, yet this was the result. The conundrum haunted Kirk, and he brushed it aside. Spock likely hadn't had time to think, with the ship under attack as it was. For what he did know about mind melds, during the incident with the OK Corral, the concentration needed was complete, even for a short session. Breaking a permanent meld would have been too much attention division. But Spock had to have considered that. He knew him. He knew he wouldn't do this to McCoy. What was going on? This all seemed so surreal. But perhaps his speculations were just a symptom of his wanting his dear friend back, and nothing more. Spock was fallible as he was, and both had proved that today.

Hours ticked slowly by. McCoy's sleep was fitful, causing him to twitch, or roll slightly on the bed. When he mumbled to himself, Kirk didn't strain his ears to listen, as it wasn't any of his business. Though he did catch the Vulcan's name once or twice. In those instances, when the mutterings sounded suspiciously like endearments, Kirk felt as if he was intruding upon something private. Curling further into the chair, and tugging the blanket more tightly about himself, he pretended not to hear. Other moments, however, when the doctor began to groan again, and clutch at himself in pain, Kirk slid out of the chair, and knelt by his side. Grasping and shaking him again, Kirk coaxed him to wake up, and relax. He doubted that McCoy even recognized him at that point.

Eventually, Kirk gave up any intention of sleeping, and replicated a cup of coffee. Sipping it, he wondered if there was a problem with the chronometer, or the night shift really was moving that slowly. He hoped that the imprint would only last for this night. He wasn't ready to talk with David and Carol again right now. The ship's air felt heavy, and he doubted that the day shift staff was getting any sleep.

Setting down the cup, he thought of Kodos. He'd come to fear that face as a child, due to the man's utterly callous nature. The remains of decapitated bodies lay in messes of blood, while others were completely vaporized. Grabbing his friend Thomas's hand, they'd both ran off into the woods, splattered with the blood of the dead, smelling of burning rubber, and whispering to each other that they'd never tell. Thomas curled up in a nest of tree limbs, and jammed his hand into his mouth, trying hard not to cry as Jim tore off strips of his own shirt to wipe the blood, so much blood, that fell from his empty eye socket. Burying his head in his brother's chest that night, Jim had quivered from fear, and tried to hide from the visions of legions of formless corpses that crawled toward him on stumps of limbs.

Kodos was but another variant of men like Khan. Kirk had previously thought the strain to be dying off, but now he was not so sure, rattled utterly as he was by Spock's death. He felt protective of David and Saavik, as well as other young people like them, and worried over what tyrants they would have to face. Had he accomplished nothing, then? He knew that his younger self would have faced this as another obstacle to best, but now he wondered whether this was just another part of the universe's cycle. Perhaps, one day, the Federation would also be buried by sand, as Khan's empire had once been. He didn't relish the prospect, but it was hard not to think of death. What would the historians say, he wondered? But then again, there were so many stories not told, or stories that were bent out of shape. The sailors of old, whose legacy the _Enterprise_ carried, sung of sex, sea creatures, and lands far away, with some songs still played today, and others lost at full fathom five.

Kirk placed his hand down upon the chronometer before the alarm could go off. He shook McCoy. The doctor blearily opened his eyes, and Kirk asked, "Bones, you okay?"

Groggily, he sat up, and rubbed at his eyes. "Pain's gone down. I still feel like hell, but I think that's more from not sleeping very well."

"Can you fill your shift?" Kirk inquired.

McCoy waved a hand. "No need to baby me, Jim. Besides, if I start skipping out on it now, it'll become a habit."

Kirk nodded and placed his hands on his friend's shoulders. "If you start feeling sick, you tell me. I'm not having you start neglecting yourself."

McCoy's gaze hardened. "Don't even think of it," he replied sharply, scooting backward out of his grasp, "but thanks, anyway. If I'm going to have any semblance of normalcy, I have to continue."

"Who said anything about normalcy?" Kirk inquired.

McCoy gave a humorless laugh.


	3. Chapter 3

Uhura's "message in a bottle" is a reference to my fanfic, "Rationalizations." According to supplementary materials, Dr. M'Benga left the _Enterprise_ to teach at a university after the five-year mission, but returned after the events of _The Voyage Home._ Saavik being the one to send Spock's body to the Genesis planet is from the novelization of _The Search for Spock_ by Vonda McIntyre. Her telling McCoy, and reporting it to Kirk, is my reaching to fill in the plot hole of how Kirk and McCoy knew that Spock's body was on the Genesis planet. At some point I write the fics behind the wedding ring and the Cherokee rose. The books will be spread out over the fanfics, with one of them being _Gray's Anatomy_ from my fanfic, "Pandora's Box." McCoy's tour of duty on Ssan is from _Shadows on the Sun_ by Michael Jan Friedman.

* * *

Preston's quarters were a wreck. Quite a few were, due to the ship pitching about. Personal effects were smashed, while clothes and papers were strewn everywhere. PADDs were scattered without a care.

Scott surveyed the entire scene without a tear, the heaviness and grief that had descended upon him having sucked it all dry for the moment. His little, bouncing nephew had grown into a good young man. While Preston, much like other youths, had lofty dreams that he at times disliked himself for not achieving quickly enough, it didn't quite matter to his uncle, right now. The fact that he had proved his character had meant so much more to Scott. Though as a passing thought, he wished to reach backwards, and yank Preston out along with him. He dismissed it just as soon. Time was linear for human beings.

The door opened, and footsteps padded in to stop at his side. He didn't bother to turn his head, as he knew who it was. The woman stood beside him in silence, surveying the chaos. Scott walked away, and up-righted a chair to sit down upon it. Uhura remained where she stood, not disturbing the room further. Her brown eyes were fixed upon his.

Death was common in engineering, so perhaps the original uniforms' red color made sense. But without that risk of great loss, no one could fly. It wasn't so much for the grandeur, or for being remembered in history, rather it was to be remembered at all. Scotty felt miserable, having so many people die under his watch. Preston, Spock, so many others…And soon enough, McCoy would also be gone. But humans were flawed beings. It happened. It just didn't make it any easier. Time ultimately took everything. It was only a matter of when.

Uhura had died in Saavik's Kobayashi Maru simulation. Everyone on the bridge had. Here she still was, however. Scott recalled how his wife had felt aggrieved over how her "message in a bottle" assignment had been very bare bones, due to how only a handful of races, compared the vastness of the Minaran system's planetary orbits, had been able to harness AM radio wave technology. It was better than nothing, but the snippets were too frustratingly meager, and too under-studied, to amount to much. Centuries of cultures were lost forever. The musicians, too, knew of death.

She turned away and looked back at the room. She'd liked Preston, finding his eagerness to learn an endearing trait. It had reminded her of Chekov. The principal criticism she had of him was that he ran through life too quickly, and at times thought he knew more than others, but then again, that was also common of a young person. All that remained was what lay upon the floor. The historian in her began to mentally pick up and examine the pieces, however she stayed that part of her imagination, given the fact that this was someone she knew, and felt like disturbing a mausoleum.

Uhura moved toward Scotty and placed her hand on her husband's shoulder. His arm wrapped about her waist. Burying his head in her chest, he let out a heavy breath.

XXXXXX

The days passed in a quiet blur. Sections of the ship were partitioned off for repairs, while exposed pieces of metal were commonplace. Excited conversations that used to permeate the ship were nonexistent now. There was no tension, rather there as a sense of dead air about the entire ship. The cadets' eager spirit had been stripped from them.

The medical staff remained intact, though it had sustained several losses, as well. With Dr. Chapel beside him, McCoy addressed the cadets that were before him. Several of them had been covered in blood during the battle with Khan, just as he had been. They appeared pale and listless. He began his talk with a question. "Are any of you expecting me to give you congratulations for surviving?" The cadets stood quietly about the sickbay, and he gave a nod. "Good, otherwise I'd suggest for you to find another profession. Best be glad you've had this trial by fire early in your careers. I know each of you has sustained a loss," he scanned over the small gathering, and registered the small nods, "and I am not without sympathy. However, this is another day in this sickbay, and I will tolerate no less than exemplary work. Understood?" More nods and verbal affirmations answered him. "Dismissed."

McCoy had been there, as well, during his first mission to Ssan. Waist-deep in blood, and with Dr. Bando's knee in his chest, and his hands around his throat, McCoy realized that the universe was not a safe place. But sympathy didn't fix anything, rather it was merely a band-aid. It wasn't just them, however, though they were shaken.

Scott was hit rather hard by it all, though his profession kept him on a close routine in engineering. He didn't blame McCoy for Preston's death, as he had been too far gone by the time he had reached the operating table. Failure was common thing both men seemed to share as of late. After releasing the last of the engineers from sickbay, McCoy spoke with him.

Cleaning grease off his gloves with a rag, Scott commented, "We never did hear of our next assignment after this one."

McCoy shrugged. "Simple, it should've lasted longer. It's not as if it's the first time we've been transferred."

Scott glanced over his shoulder in the direction where his cadets have gone. "Wherever they go, I'll likely be with them for a while longer. They'll need someone to vouch for them, in what happened during that battle."

McCoy's eyes narrowed. "It's easy for a desk jockey to make remarks about us, out here."

Scotty turned back to him with a knowing look, understanding that McCoy's more biting remarks were a result of his not attending Starfleet Academy. "What about yours?"

"Chapel can take care of them, or M'Benga, if he wants to come back."

Scotty frowned at McCoy's flippancy. "And you?"

McCoy pitched his voice down. "I'll have to disembark. I can't have my heart give out in a critical situation."

Scott swiped the back of his glove over his forehead in a defeated gesture. "Will ye at least have a drink with me, before you go?"

McCoy smirked. "Of course."

Chekov was utterly ashamed, having inadvertently caused the death of his idol. He couldn't bring himself to look at McCoy, half the time, though his crewmate did not hold animosity toward him. Chekov filled in on engineering detail, for the time being. He kept mostly to himself, with his few social interactions being mostly with Sulu.

However, when he, after being ordered by McCoy, appeared in sick bay for a follow-up on the removal of the parasitic worm from his head, the awkwardness had become too much. Clenching his fingers about his desk's console, and rising, McCoy ordered, "Chekov, look at me!" He glanced up, his narrowed slightly at the doctor's sharp tone. McCoy relaxed, releasing his hands, and holding his gaze. "Ear's fine, you can go back on duty."

Chekov nodded his head. "Thank you, sir." Standing, he left. He was able to look at him from then on, though he still said little.

Saavik's session was different, and informal, with her staring out the window. She stopped McCoy with a greeting as he passed by her. Their relationship was strictly professional, with her being Spock's trainee, and not his. Her silence was easy to feel.

"I have made a report to Admiral Kirk," she commented, facing him fully, "about the destination of Captain Spock's casket."

McCoy swallowed, and his hand tightened on the rail. Noticing his reaction, Saavik glanced aside. "This has troubled you," she commented, "I will speak no further on this matter, then."

"You stopped me," he replied, "Whatever it is you want to tell me, out with it."

Saavik adjusted her gaze back to him. "I arranged for it to land upon the Genesis planet," she explained.

McCoy felt as if the room had tilted. His heart beat faster, and he took care to keep his fingers at his side, despite a compulsion to put a hand to his heart. Saavik's gaze caught the motion, but she said nothing. He inquired, "What will happen to him, on there?" His use of pronouns, he thought, probably gave himself away, but it was better than "it."

"I do not know," she replied genuinely, turning her face in profile, and staring back out into space, "I do not wish to give you false hope. I found it fitting, for him to be placed there."

McCoy thought of his bond but decided against voicing it to Saavik. It was a matter too private for her to know. Had she not been Vulcan, or perhaps, if he had known her longer, then he could speak with her. He figured that she had likely put two and two together, as their marital status was common knowledge, but then again, he was human. A meld wasn't necessarily expected for a relationship between a Vulcan and a non-Vulcan. He couldn't tell if he was wasting an opportunity with this and did not very well care. He also did not wish to lower Saavik's opinion of her mentor, as well, due to what the broken bond was doing to him.

"It was not logical," she added, "Perhaps I am becoming too human."

XXXXXX

Work gave him a sense of normalcy, in that was something he could do. Everyone seemed to resemble more machines, these days. The cadets were never to know of what was to happen to him, and it wasn't any of their business.

Nights were hard, as numbness began to set in. McCoy feared, more than much else, to become numb to this tragedy. He'd been allowed to remove his personal effects from Spock's cabin. There were a couple of items he had left, such as books he'd gifted to Spock over time (which his husband had kept in excellent condition), Spock's wedding ring, and a dried bouquet of Cherokee roses. He'd had a thought, for a moment, to place a few gifts of Spock's that he had, in that room, but decided against it, as Spock likely intended for him to keep them. A Vulcan totem that warded off bad spirits (useless) sat on the shelf above his bed. An antique music box, found by Spock while on Earth was on his desk. The Vulcan had taken care to retune it. The box's engraving was of a woman with long blonde hair sitting in a boat, her expression mournful. He'd attempted to listen to it as a way of lulling himself to sleep but had closed it just as soon.

Picking up a hairbrush Spock had left on the nightstand, McCoy tugged out the coarse, dark hairs, and dropped them into a glass container. Sealing it, he put it away in his nightstand drawer. He'd wished to cut a lock of Spock's hair, and keep it, but it couldn't be done, due to the radiation his body had absorbed. Objects like the brush were the hardest to interact with, as they had been left quite incidentally, with Spock and McCoy trading back and forth who stayed where. He'd put them away in a storage container, though his hands had been shaking while he did so.

While he had been so used to placing his arm about another body, or having two arms encircling him, they were gone. McCoy didn't want to think of this as just an interim, until he could be with Spock again. That was self-defeating. It pained him to consider the possibility of not seeing Joanna again, before passing away. His hand would land over his heart and feel its subtle beating as he breathed slowly in and out. How would it happen, he wondered? Lying asleep would be the best way, as it would do the least emotional harm to others but dying alone scared him.

His dreams posed a different level of disturbance. In some, he was on Vulcan, though not as a human man. There was a classroom, multiple, in fact, with textbooks in a language that he should not have been able to understand, yet he could read, interpret, and dictate it. Faces turned to stare at him, with cloaks swishing away. Somewhere, he fell, and cut his hand on a jutting rock. Tugged up on his arm by an angered male Vulcan, he was scolded. Only did he realize, upon registering the features more closely, was that the scolder was a younger Sarek. Ships streaked across the sky of Vulcan, and he ran, along with other Vulcan children, to the edge of a fence. Clutching it, he watched older models of Federation ships fly by.

The other type of dreams, however, were ones that scared him, more than much else. He felt Spock all over him, the pads of his fingers, the wetness of his tongue, and the softness of his flesh. McCoy at first put it down as a wet dream, something he woke to sweating, and with an aggravated groan as he realized that he had to beat himself off. He told himself that was the only issue he had to deal with, not wanting to reduce himself into a mess. But then, the dreams went deeper, his body merging with Spock's, red and green blood mixing together, and some anomaly, unknown to both species of humanoids, was grotesquely formed. It moaned and groaned from the sensation of two merged bodies continuously pleasuring each other. He'd had to hold in a scream after jolting awake from that, only to collapse backward against the bed, and wonder just what the hell it was. McCoy swallowed, and realized that it very well could be a signifier of his death hanging over his head. Catching his breath, he stumbled out of bed, banging his arm on the nightstand, and crying out from it. The jolt brought him back to the waking world, and away from that thing.

Jim sat with his friend when he could. Conversation between them was limited, focusing more on the comings and goings of the day. On occasion, McCoy would gently tell him to go spend time with David. It was not so much over the fact that he thought Kirk was spending too much time watching over him, rather it was the fact that he did want him to see his son. Likely, after docking, he would not get that chance again.

Alone, McCoy shattered a couple of his glasses out of clumsiness, anger, and frustration, alcohol spilling. Swearing, he would clean it up, and try to stabilize himself, being out of sorts in his head, and from the effects of the alcohol. Inebriated, he would bury his head in his hands, shaking with sobs.

As time went on, however, it began to feel different. It was as if McCoy was just beneath the surface of water, the background movements dulled about him. Conversations about him seemed emptier, somehow. He grasped the meaning of the words, but everything seemed not to make sense. It was all like garbled noise, his crewmates prattling on about emotional concerns. It was wasteful. Life was too short. It didn't fit, however, as his bond with his deceased husband had been broken. His thoughts should be clearer, now. He needed them to be. And yet, it felt as if he was further encased than before. But encased in what? It disturbed McCoy that he thought it was an indicator of his body beginning to shut down.

Christine stood over him, illuminated in ghostly fashion by the blue and reds of the headset as she analyzed his brain waves. Handing him a PADD, she explained gravely, "Your readings are growing more anomalous. There are considerable spikes and troughs in activity."

McCoy read it over quietly, swallowing. The heart rate monitors about him hummed disquietingly. At last raising his eyes, he asked, "I'm not going mad, am I?"

Chapel shook her head and sat down beside him. "You're still acting the same as you have, on the outside. On the inside, however, it's different."

McCoy tilted his head to the side, and his vision of Chapel swam slightly. She looked like she was growing a second head. "Physically, everything's okay," he commented. Rubbing at his eyes, he added, "I think I should take something to steady myself."

"Do you want to do that?" Chapel asked evenly, "You don't know how quickly this situation is deteriorating."

"I know, but," his fingers tapped on the table, "Either I take it, or I declare myself unfit for duty. I can't, right now. We're limping back home."

Chapel's eyes narrowed. "There's a chance that you can die here, if we don't know how badly it is going."

"What idea do you have?" McCoy asked.

She gestured back towards the headset. "If you want to lie down, I'll attempt a stabilization. It won't be a permanent fix, but it can stave off the effects, for a while."

McCoy glanced over at it. "It carries the risk of addiction. I've already hit the bottle, before."

"It's your choice," Christine replied, taking the PADD back from him. "However, you just told me that you are beginning to consider yourself unfit for duty because of this disturbance. I have yet to see that occur, but the moment that it does, this will be your treatment." McCoy looked back at her as she continued, "Unless you want to begin, now. The situation is already dire."

"We don't have time," he replied, "Once we get back to Earth, I'll look into it."

Chapel's gaze sharpened, and then slowly relaxed. "I'll be watching."

Voices whispered, just outside of his periphery. That concerned him more than much else. However, they were so minor, so quiet, and tended to leave just as soon as they came. When McCoy began to hear them, however, he took her up on her treatment.

Lying upon his back, he nodded at Christine. "Just relax," she coaxed, "and sleep."

Chapel kept her notes on her co-worker covert and handed them over to him when requested. The voices receded after the stabilization but didn't quite go away. She was disappointed when she offered her arm to help him sit up.

"Is there anything you need me to do?" She asked.

"Like what?" McCoy asked, more sharply than he had intended, "You aren't beholden to me personally. I don't want to dump anything on you."

She raised an eyebrow, not about to back down. "I've known you for how long? This is what friends do for each other."

"And when have I asked if I could do anything for you?" He deflected, "It's your personal matter. We're professionals."

Tension crackled between them, and Chapel waited for him to make an accusation that he would later regret. McCoy, however, caught himself. Chapel frowned as she sat on the chair positioned beside the bed, her lab coat rumpling. She knew him better than he thought, but that was to be understood. Christine had told him little of the loss of her fiancée, keeping it close to herself. Hence, he kept his own affairs close, work being the only thing they shared. That, and an affection for a certain hobgoblin, though hers was more of a lingering nostalgia. With the calmness of their lives shattered, she was attempting to reach through a hole in the wall.

But McCoy remained stubborn. He didn't want to drag her through this, as splintered into pieces as he felt. It was enough that she was reading his brain waves. To interact with a sphere outside of Starfleet was something that he didn't want to put on her. Then again, he chided himself, he did speak with Jim about items not regarding work. But there was a difference, due to the situation. "Don't feel obligated to me," McCoy at last replied, "because I am dying."

Chapel shook her head. "It's not obligation, Leonard. I want to do this for you. I should have offered this much earlier."

He shrugged. "We're not very good at handling our relationships, Christine." Standing, and tugging on his lab coat, which was hanging nearby on a hook, he continued, "But I can't accept this. You deserve to live your own life, without taking on my problems."

"The Admiral?" She asked pointedly.

"He'll need to learn that, too," McCoy replied, "I don't want to drag him down, as well."

"That's foolish," Chapel pointed out.

"I know," he muttered bitterly. Rising, Chapel walked out with him.

XXXXXX

He was finishing the day's medical log when the epiphany came.

The ritual had been silent, as it typically was. The _Enterprise_ was at last sailing into more local star systems. They were coming home, but McCoy felt still quite adrift. Dates gave him a sense of linear time, but he was still unsure of where he exactly was. His own handwriting seemed to make little sense. He had a gauge notion of the fact that he hadn't yet contacted Joanna, Donna, or Spock's parents, though it was not due to putting it off. Rather, he just felt not completely there.

He still found it hard to phrase. He could already picture Donna greeting him warmly with, "Hey, cowboy," only for her face to slowly fall to horror, and her giving a whispered, "Len, no…" Joanna, he especially did not wish to look forward to speaking with, on this matter. He truly was abandoning her, now. She'd be fierce, like Jim, and exclaim that she would do anything to keep her father alive, a repetition of his history with his own father. Sarek, he found he didn't much care about. McCoy knew he was going to be angry with him, though it would be extremely subtle. Disapproving hostility was fine; at least it felt alive. Amanda would be quite disappointed with him, though McCoy knew she wouldn't devolve into tears, being fiercer than she had appeared to be. She wouldn't say a scornful word, but her unhappiness would be felt between them. While she was more inclined toward him than Sarek, McCoy knew that there would still be distance. That was fine.

The instrument thumped as it hit the table, and McCoy blinked at it. What was he doing? It couldn't be anything consequential, in importance to this. It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. There was his answer. He knew where to go, now, his purpose being defined for him. That room was his salvation.

Chapel heard something drop from the direction of McCoy's office, followed by footsteps, and the sound of the external door opening and shutting. She paused in conversation with a resident, who called back her attention. She hadn't heard him fall, merely get up, and walk away, his shift having ended. Turning back, she answered the question.

The door to Spock's quarters was barred and taped over. McCoy stifled a cry of disdain. He needed to get in there, more than anything. Turning about, he thought on it, his objective clear in the empty hallway. Yet, another part of him wanted to stop moving. He didn't want to go in there. His body, however, continued to move on its own, disobeying what he had willed for it to do. Something was overriding his will, but he found, less and less, that he cared. He would be with Spock soon. For a moment, however, McCoy's will cried out again, stopping him in his tracks just once before continuing on. Now, where was that tool?

The door groaned as the jack forced it open. McCoy grunted at it, his grip slipping, and his arms burning from the exertion. He had to get through, he had to see him! The jack slipped from his hand to fall to the floor as he leaned forward, his hands placed upon the parted doors, and caught his breath, the barrier breached at last.

He raised his head, and started forward, light spilling eerily into the room. It was dark, empty. Ghosts rose before him, of better times. Over on that chair, McCoy had placed his uniform jacket, as this room had felt like home. Over there on that bed, he had laid on his side, his eyes closed, and listened to the whisper of turning pages as Spock read from one of his books. The ship hummed quietly, reminding him of how Spock had asked him to sing for him.

Upon the glass was the emblem of the Federation. McCoy placed his hand on its surface, his eyes darting about. No one was here. What was he looking for? He wanted to dart out, to leave, but nonetheless felt drawn to stay. The weight of his disappointment fell upon him, and he sat down upon a chair, his hands on his knees. He had truly gone mad. There was no one here.

Lowering his head, he stared down at his hands. Something was tugging him again into the abyss. McCoy thought to get up and leave the gloom. However, it was fleeting. He felt his thoughts slipping from him. McCoy's hand twisted slightly upon his lap. "Help…" It came out as a whisper as his consciousness faded.

Footsteps sounded. Someone was entering the room, tentatively. A smile formed upon the doctor's face as he registered Kirk's familiar form. It fell, and a ragged voice whispered, "Jim, help me." As Kirk slowly came forward, disturbed by the voice, it continued, "You left me, on Genesis. Why did you do that? Help me."

Kirk darted forward and seized the intruder by the shoulders. No one should have been in here! Was this a sick joke? The intruder gasped as Kirk swung his body into the light. Kirk's breath caught in shock.

"Bones?"


End file.
